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Picture proof of why living in Auld Reekie is a joy. She is a beautiful city, even more delicious on a sunny day. Oh, and yes, definitely a she. Not a he, certainly not an it. Possibly a gay she, not sure. You know, dear reader, the way some gay men refer to another gay man as her or she. Edinburgh is camp. I wonder if she knew about it?
I'm not a fascist when it comes to my love for Edinburgh. I appreciate there are other beautiful cities out there. San Francisco is one of them. I hope to get there some day. I'm sure I will. Check out why Eric loves it.
I knew a girl who tried to walk across the lake. Of course, it was Winter and all this was ice. That's a hell of a thing to do, you know. They say this lake is as big as the ocean.
Why do I associate Yoko Ono with San Francisco, my lamb, when she was born in Tokyo and lives in New York City? Ah, I see. She spent the first few years of her childhood there. I had no idea, though. Or perhaps I did and the information's been lurking in the back of my mind for a while. Click here to read about her early life.
Half memory is a strange thing. Suddenly remembering something or seemingly knowing something you don't remember learning is an unnerving experience, my little maid.
Green/redI shouldn't be a fan of motor transport and/or methods to effect this. But I am a fan of the M8, dear reader.
Not only because it takes me to my pulchritudinous friends in Armadale and Greenock, but because it has the power to stir the mind of drivers and passengers during what might otherwise be a mind-numbing journey. All thanks to the M8 Art Project.
On Sunday, Ian and I were invited to Alan's dinner party at his beautiful home in Armadale. En route, well into West Lothian, in between junctions three and four, we passed the Pyramids Business Park (where we used to go for Yoga and Pilates) and the accompanying pyramids. Earthworks, covered in grass, originally entitled Sawtooth Ramps. Sheep are sometimes released onto the artwork in order to keep the grass trimmed. Indeed, there were sheep on the pyramids. Red ones! I nearly choked on my lamb chop!
The M8, my little maid, is like a conveyor belt in a gallery. There's much to see. Because it's been placed there. Click here for more pictures of M8 art. But aren't all roads conveyor belts? Although William Shakespeare claimed it is a stage, isn't the whole world also an art gallery?
Next time you're on the road, my love, have a look around you. You might be astounded at what you see.
By the way. I wonder if the people behind the M8 Art Project, the owners of the business park, the farmer who dyed the sheep or, indeed, the artist herself are Labour supporters? It did cross my mind. I'm a cynical cow.
Red, white and blue, dear reader. Fabulous colours, they go together really well.
The Union Flag is not only the prettiest flag in the world because of these wonderful colours but because the flag itself looks like the viewer is looking at something through a kaleidoscope.
It's delicious.
Other versions were propsed. You can view them, my little maid, by clicking here.
I actually quite like a version used mainly in Scotland where the white bands of the St Andrew's Cross overlays St George's. It's quite beautiful. I especially like the way the red stripes become something resembling an arrow.
Other flags of note using red, white and blue are the French and USA flags. Busy or minimalist, they are beautiful. It is not patriotism which fills my heart with a warm sigh on seeing these flags, although they share the colours of my own as I am neither French nor American. I simply see immense beauty in the colours themselves and their combination.
I see such fabulousness in many flags, though, my lamb, from all around the world. Which ones are your favourites?
As Cher once said, dear reader, love hurts. Furthermore, love is like a stove. It burns you when it's hot.
Of course, there's always more than one side to a coin and more than one version of any story. Yes, love is like a stove! But you can use that stove, dear reader, to heat up your dinner and to warm your kitchen. In a warm kitchen, many people can reside. Warming their hands by the stove, laughing, chatting, drinking gin and tonics.
In a cold kitchen, a householder tends to be alone. If others are present, they tend to huddle in a corner, covers over their heads, teeth chattering or sucking on a Farley's rusk.
Little Alex doesn't want fuel from the rest of the UK. He'd rather pay more for it elsewhere. The net result of these actions will be a cold kitchen and no friends.
Fabulous Jack, however, wants Scotland to remain part of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland. We'll have lots of fuel and keep the good friendships we've built up over the past three hundred years and more.
Please, dear reader, if you reside in Scotland, vote Labour on 3rd May 2007.
The SNP want to look backwards. I think it's time to look and go forward.
One thing that really bothers me about the SNP is their childish reaction to the economies of Scotland and the union. They basically say nothing about the rescue of the Scottish state after the Darien fiasco but constantly harp on about Scotland's oil. Just like Jimmy, in the playground, wanting to be friends with Willy as long as he's got sweeties. Jimmy gets given an even bigger sweet, so he says to Willy, "Fuck off! I've always hated you, anyway!"
In a world full of hatred and strife, can't we buck the trend, love one another and get along? We're better that way.
And, for the love of Christ, can you imagine Alex Salmond as First Minister? Or President? We'd be a laughing stock.
Keep up with the events of the Scottish election with Brian Taylor's blog by clicking here.
The first day of April can be fun. Admitting the end of a blogging hobby or calling people up advising of a pair of broken legs is all good stuff.
No-one had me, sadly.
Mum fell for the broken legs story. Again. I can't tell her the Queen Mother is dead anymore since that actually happened a few years back.
Alan went for the legs, too. Though not mine, Ian's.
Loads of daffodils were out yesterday, dear reader. A sure sign of Spring. J'adore it. Summer's just around the corner and the daylight hours are longer than the night.
Taking advantage of the beautiful Spring weather, Ian and I decided to take the dogs for a walk into the Pentland Hills. Half way up, we stopped for a rest. Meg and I were so tired, we had to lay down. I thought I'd never be able to get up again. My hips were killing me!
We made it almost to the top. Almost. A kind of demi-summit, if you like. There's a glorious view of the city to be had and the peace is, well, peaceful, ski-slope notwithstanding.
Check this out on the Midlothian Snowsports Centre Wikipedia article:
It is one of the most convenient ski slopes in Scotland but people like Fat Pete the chairlift guy and Davy DM ruin it.
Mary loves sticks, twigs, wee bits of bark, leaves, needles. She just doesn't care, dear reader.
Another sign of Spring: bursting buds.
After a wee rest, we came back down. Almost at the bottom, Mary found a wee seat requiring her bottom.
So then we came home. A shower and a change of clothes later, we headed out to Armadale for a dinner party at Château Fisher. Scott and Nicola were there, Alan, too, of course. We had a fabulous meal. Alan made lasagne, to die for! Salad, jacket potato, garlic bread... Divine!
The above image is the dining room after we'd eaten. You might have thought we're a set of messy slobs, my little maid, but we're not! Look!
Nicola is such a funny lady. She told the tale of how, when at school, someone had asked her if she was a pencil or a pencil sharpener. On answering, "Pencil," she was told that this meant she was a boy! I laughed and laughed, tears running down my face. I think I even did a bit of wee-wee.
Alan runs a tight ship. The galley was spotless!
I thought I couldn't eat any more, but well, you know me. I love a creamy finish.
As do Phyllis and Scott.
Scott loves to watch Nicola put it in her mouth.
After eating, we had a chat and watched a wee bit of telly. The Most Hated Family in America was compulsive viewing and brought to us by Louis Theroux. The worshipers at Westboro Baptist Church see the world around them, namely the United States of America, as an irreligious place. God's judgement on America's acceptance of homosexuality and the worshiping of idols such as flags, presidents and the dead is the killing of soldiers in Iraq, cancer and AIDS.
Pastor Phelps wished Louis, "Good luck."
Tsk!
I think the bible forbids such behaviour. So who's irreligious now?
We also watched Wife Swap with Vanessa Feltz, her gorgeous beau, Debbie McGee and Paul Daniels.
Paul thought he was being quizzed. He thought Vanessa didn't care about anyone. Vanessa, with no conversation coming from Paul, thought he didn't care much about her.
Debbie was a nasty little slut. She'd obviously learned the vulgarities of arrogance and control-freakery from her shit of a husband and bombarded Ben with advice on how he could improve himself. The only one who needed advice was Debbie - advice on the quickest way of leaving Paul.
Debbie's got a modelling agency. Check out the hot models by clicking here.
We laughed as we were reminded of an interview in which Mrs Merton asked, "So, Debbie, what was it that attracted you to millionaire Paul Daniels?"
Debbie, Paul and the Westboro congregation were such utter shits, Alan was inspired to look up Rate My Poo online. Actually, this is a lie. Poor Scott was constipated. You know how conversation sometimes goes, dear reader. One thing led to another and within ten seconds of this announcement, poo was on Alan's desktop.
Scott and Nicola then departed, Scott having to work that night. It was soon time for Ian, Meg, Mary and I to go home. Meg was not happy. She likes going to Alan's house. He lets her up on the couch.
The drive home was not so long. We spoke again about our three years in Armadale, our pretty house there and the fantastic friends we made in that time. And time. It flies by so fast, dear reader.
Sunday is the day of rest, dear reader. But I cannot rest. I have to work out why Russell shiTforbrains Davies is so obsessed with recycling themes, characters, names and stories in his work. It used to be interesting, now it's plain annoying.
But, oh, what better way to take my mind off this vile little man than Fib Sunday?
There is no other way. Well, there's putting my tongue in a plug socket, but it's a waste of electricity, quite frankly.
Incidentally, this is the last ever Fib Sunday. More to the point, my last ever blog entry. Ever. I'm tired of it, to be honest. It takes up a lot of my time, time that should be spent living, not talking about living.
So that's it.
If you don't know what Fib Sunday is, or indeed, what's going on, click here for the original instructions. They are quite fabulous, even if I say so myself.
In brief:1) I take the topic as given in last week's final entry, write a Fib and give a new topic.2) Your reply to the topic is in the form of a Fib in the comment section.3) You then supply the next topic.4) The next visitor replies with a Fib on the newly given topic and then provides a new topic and so on...A Fib is a six line, twenty syllable poem with a syllable count by line of 1/1/2/3/5/8. The only restriction on a Fib is that the syllable count follow the Fibonacci sequence. An example of a classic fib:OneSmall,Precise,Poetic,Spiraling mixture:Math plus poetry yields the Fib.
Last time, Brian left us with the topic of a fly on the wall overhears a conversation between Edina Monsoon and Andy Warhol. My stylised yet overweight response:
"Uh
oh -
Andy!"
Said Eddie,
"I'm on a tin can?"
"Yeah," said Warhol. "Beans. Buddhist beans."
Next topic:
1st April 2007
